


A Bigger Grand Canyon

by Medeafic



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Voyeurism, mention of ageplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anton is a struggling actor and successful sex-worker.  Who likes art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bigger Grand Canyon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Больше Гранд-Каньона (A Bigger Grand Canyon)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/597164) by [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor)



> Title is taken from the amazing [A Bigger Grand Canyon](http://www.friendsofart.net/static/images/art3/david-hockney-a-bigger-grand-canyon.jpg) by David Hockney.
> 
> Written for the lovely LJer garden_hoe21; eternal gratitude to Brilliant Beta Emmessann.

On his off days, and when he doesn’t have an audition (which is most days, it seems), Anton goes to museums and art galleries. The first time he sees Quiet Guy, Anton is on his way to sit in front of an enormous, sixty-panel oil painting of the Grand Canyon. He’s never been to the Canyon himself, but viewing it here gives him a sense of peace and grandeur that he rarely gets from his everyday life. Looking into the pinks and oranges lulls his mind into silence, so that he doesn’t have to be sexy or permissive or active or passive or anything anyone else asks him to be.

He can lose himself in the Canyon instead, let go of all his ambitions and cares and wants and needs.

And then one day when he arrives at the gallery, in the middle of the day as usual, because he’s not like other people who have to work nine to five, his normal seat in front of the Grand Canyon is taken.

Taken by a hot older guy with strong hands and beautiful green-brown eyes and a plump, pink-lipped mouth pulled tight with tension. He’s glaring into the Canyon like he’s angry at it, but over the next ten minutes Anton sees the strain leave his face, and his mouth relax. He takes one final, deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment and then rises to leave.

Anton avoids his gaze, pretends to mess with his iPod instead, but he can feel the soft eyes on his face, sweeping over his body.

He’s used to being looked at, but normally he gets paid for it.

  
***

  
It’s always the same with Zoë: regular, like clockwork, so he always knows what to expect. Anton is grateful for that, though, because Zoë still scares him a little. She’s extremely polite and extremely tough on him, and normally in this business it’s not wise to sub for anyone one-on-one, but Anton figured it might be different with a woman, less likely to end badly. And he saw it as another form of acting research, finding out what it was like from a sub’s point of view.

Rachel rolled her eyes at him when she’d heard he was taking on the client. “Two words: Aileen Fucking Wuornos.” But Anton didn’t even bother with the obvious comeback, _That’s three words_ ; just went about making the booking.

It’s not that he ever _regretted_ taking on Zoë, so much as…was never likely to underestimate his female clients again.

Zoë enjoys many things, but fucking him is not one of them. She does allow him to come from time to time. And he is _never_ allowed to touch her without permission during their sessions. The first time, she tied him up and hit him, whipping his ass until it went numb and he had to safe-word because he feared for his nerve-endings. Afterwards, she told him not to leave it so long next time, a flash of apology in her eyes.

“I came to a professional because I need to know they won’t take things so personally. If you want to stop, say so. It’s not going to upset me.”

She rubbed his arms up and down briskly, a blanket over his shoulders. She’s always affectionate in a distant way after their sessions, watches the time and leaves fifteen minutes exactly for aftercare, makes sure he’s feeling okay, whether he needs any first aid (either mental or physical), but she’s never what Anton would call _cuddly_.

He tells Rachel about Zoë’s small kindnesses, and it makes her soften a little. “I guess it must be hard, sometimes,” she says thoughtfully. “For a woman who prefers it the way she does. Hard to find someone.”

Anton agrees. “Tough to screen men, right? Make sure they’re not psycho, or looking for an excuse to fight back, or even just likely to have an emotional meltdown.”

They sit in silent contemplation for a moment, until Rachel leaves to re-do her lipstick. She pops her head back around the door on the way to her next client and says, “Hey, Anton. That’s what I like about you. You try to see it from the female perspective. Some men just can’t do that.” She smiles and winks and heads off to her ageplay client, who likes breastfeeding and wearing diapers. _It takes all kinds_ , is all she ever says about him.

Anton is struck by her words, though, and touched. “The female perspective,” he says to himself. Yeah. It’s something to look into.

Soon enough, Anton is reading all about femdoms and BDSM subcultures. He tries to engage Zoë in conversation about it, asking whether she believes female domination is part of the natural order, but her incredulous, arched eyebrows silence him quickly.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says slowly, “but I don’t come to you to discuss my life views or philosophies. They’re complex enough that I prefer to take a break from them sometimes, disengage my mind and just…”

“Act?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I understand.”

She lifts one thin shoulder in an eloquent movement. “I do appreciate you taking the time to look into it. I know this isn’t really your thing.”

“With you, it is. And I don’t mean just because you’re paying for it.” He means it, but he’s not sure what possessed him to _say_ it, because talking about the money aspect with a client? It just destroys the fantasy. He wonders for a moment if she’ll leave now, or not come back anymore, but Zoë is actually smiling.

“I think you might even be telling the truth. Could you stand up, please? I’d like to hang you up now.”

Anton rises from his knees and puts his bound hands obediently above his head, watching her legs stretch as she gets up on tip-toe in her boots to secure the ropes on the hook descending from the ceiling.

Is it wrong or right that she takes from him like this? Anton ponders it later in the night, while Rachel rubs more soothing ointment into his back, which is covered in red raised stripes. The break room has several _chaise longues_ for employees to rest after sessions, and Anton always feels the need to lie down for a while after Zoë.

One of the other employees stands by, watching. She hasn’t been in the game long and she refuses so far to do anything too outré. “What guy pissed her off so bad that she turned out that way?” she asks, yanking open the fridge to take out a water bottle.

“That’s not how it is,” Anton snaps, at the same time as Rachel says, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The newbie whirls on her toe and leaves the room.

“She won’t last long,” Rachel says.

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Did Zoë make another appointment?”

“Same time next week, as usual.”

  
***

  
This time Anton is pretty sure Quiet Guy is waiting for him, because he’s there at the same time, walking around the gallery room that houses the Canyon and looking at the other paintings, including the Lucian Freud on the wall opposite. When Anton walks in, his ears filled with Rachmaninov from his iPod, he’s oblivious for a moment, but movement in the corner catches his eye, and there’s Quiet Guy pretending not to look at him. He’s looking furiously at the wall instead, not even at one of the artworks.

Alright. Anton is used to this, used to being looked at. He sits in front of the Canyon and tunes out the world, the latest failed audition, his clients. Flies out over purple and red rock and wonders what the air out there feels like.

When his time is up, Quiet Guy is still there, twenty-three minutes of pretending to gaze at the Freud and a Francis Bacon, so Anton can tell he’s persistent at least. But it doesn’t feel creepy, for some reason. It never does until the starer knows what he does for a living, and he’s not talking about his real job, acting. He’s talking about his profession.

“I’m a prostitute,” he’ll explain baldly to them, and watch their faces change. Disgust, sometimes, but usually lust. Because whores are always up for a fuck, and even if they’re not in the mood, it’s just a question of money.

Anton sighs. This is why he doesn’t date. No one ever respects his profession like he does himself.

He’s only got fifteen minutes to catch his bus to work, but he takes his time wandering out of the gallery. He’s surprisingly disappointed that Quiet Guy doesn’t follow him.

  
***

  
“I’m really glad you’re not one of those _big_ guys, you know?” Kerri says. She’s been talking incessantly since Anton closed the door, and he recognizes it for nerves. “Because John’s not big either, so—”

“ _Hey!_ ” Her husband gives her an indignant glare.

“Oh, my God, no, I didn’t mean it that way, I just meant, you know…” But she’s overcome by giggles. “Honey, I’m sorry, really.”

John isn’t really offended, though, just pretending to be. He grins at Anton. “It’s her birthday today, right? And I haven’t had the greatest track record with presents—”

“A hot-dog station is _not_ a present. That’s what he got me last year, can you believe it?”

“It wasn’t like a _whole stand_. It was just a countertop thing. You steam the franks, and—”

“Speaking of steamed franks,” Kerri says sweetly, and raises an expectant eyebrow.

John sighs, ruffles his hair. “She’s always had this big fantasy, right? Of watching me getting nailed. The woman is perverse, what can I say.”

Kerri swats at him, and looks embarrassed.

“That’s not perverse,” Anton assures her. “I know perverse, and believe me, that’s not it.”

“See, honey, it’s totally normal.” She gives John a sly smile, and Anton finds himself enjoying them as a couple. They’re nervous, but they’re adventurous, he can tell, so he lets them take the lead, chattering together and making suggestions, rearranging furniture, politely pointing out the flaws in the other’s proposal, before settling on a scenario.

They end up with Kerri on the bed and John between her legs, and kissing down her belly. She’s kept her bra on but has removed everything else. John starts going down on her with a great deal of enthusiasm, and Kerri lets her head fall back. She looks at Anton from half-closed eyes.

“I was going to – _ah_ – I was going to tell you what to do, but you – _unh_ – you know what you’re doing I’m sure so—” Her eyes go wide. “So how about we just all do what we’re doing and what we’re best at _oh God_ and by the way he’s wearing a plug,” she finishes in a rush, and Anton is pretty sure that’s as much sense as she’s going to make for the next little while, so he does as she suggests and gets to work.

John _is_ wearing a plug, and he whines quietly when Anton pulls it out. It was thoughtful of Kerri, he thinks, because he’s sure she’s the one who put it there. John’s ass is relaxed and waiting for him, so Anton suits up, lubes up, and starts fucking him. After Kerri has come twice, she rolls to the side and just watches, a delighted smile on her lips. John pulls up to prop himself on hands and knees for Anton, and he fucks him deeper; tries not to watch Kerri watching John.

Afterwards, they thank him happily, and he lets them have five extra minutes in the room alone before they leave. It only seems fair.

  
***

  
Quiet Guy isn’t waiting for him next time, but Anton has arrived early this afternoon. He wanted some extra time – to look at some of the other artworks, he insists to himself. Definitely not because he wants extra time with Quiet Guy, maybe actually talk to him.

He’s been there for five minutes when Quiet Guy hurries into the room, stops dead when he sees Anton, and smiles. He comes over to the Lucian Freud again, which is hanging next to the Bacon Anton is pretending to view. From the corner of his eye, Anton watches Quiet Guy spread his legs and cross his arms as thought contemplating the mysteries of Freud’s brushwork. But from the slight smile on his face, Anton can tell he’s more interested in Anton than Freud.

The light in the room is bright, tinted cerise and cyclamen and ginger where it reflects back off the Canyon. It slides over Quiet Guy’s shoulders, imbuing his faded denim jacket with color.

Anton still has his earbuds in, but his iPod is off. He’s wondered sometimes whether Quiet Guy has a nickname for him, too – iPod Kid, maybe, or Curly. Or maybe Quiet Guy as well. They stand side by side for maybe five minutes, until Anton decides to test it, and moves away into the next room.

And Quiet Guy follows.

They walk room to room, observing each other as much as the works on display, and Anton enjoys it, the reciprocity. He’s not just being looked at now; he’s looking back, judging instead of accepting, wondering and even taking – drinking his fill.

Eventually, he has to go. His first client appointment starts later today, but he’s already missed the second bus and he’ll have to get a taxi. Just outside the entrance, he turns to look Quiet Guy in the face.

Quiet guy is smiling, open, and he takes a breath to say something.

“I’m a prostitute,” Anton says, before Quiet Guy can speak. “So. Yeah.”

Quiet Guy looks taken aback. Anton pulls out his iPod and turns it on, not wanting to see the rest of his expression. He turns and walks away. He can dimly hear Quiet Guy talking, but he ignores it and jogs down the steps to the street, grabs the first taxi he can find.

  
***

  
Every time Bruce visits, Anton gets a happy little hop in his step that Rachel teases him about. But he can’t help it. Bruce is so refined and so affable; Anton has kind of a crush on him, which is a strange thing because their relationship is strictly professional.

And it helps him shove Quiet Guy out of his mind.

Bruce is powerful and commanding as he steps into the room, but as he undresses and focuses, his demeanor changes. This is what Anton loves to watch – his confident, regal aura stripping down as he does, down to the bare essentials, the truth of the man. He’s not high-strung, not in the least, but by the time he’s kneeling on the floor in front of a heavy leather armchair, his head inclined, his breathing slow and even, he’s changed. Or maybe evolved. Completely relaxed, completely content. Anton always takes a moment to try to define it, to find the perfect word or phrase, but so far it’s eluded him. Whatever it is, though, he likes it.

When Anton started in this business he thought it might be tough to really dominate someone. For a while he felt absurd ordering other people around. Zoë was right; it’s not really his kink, this domination and submission stuff, but he’s researched it thoroughly because he wants to do the best job he can. And after he started seeing Zoë, Anton liked to think that he adapted and learned and implemented some of her techniques.

It all changed with Bruce, though. That’s when Anton realized how things should really go down. Bruce is so calm and so willing and so _giving_ , that it rearranged Anton’s view 180 degrees. It’s not a process of dominating, but _accepting_. Once he opened up to that and accepted what was offered, everything changed. Anton found his groove, and Bruce taught him more every time he came in, without even seeming to teach him. And in turn he’s passed on the benefits to Zoë, actively giving to her rather than submitting passively.

“How was your day?” Anton asks him. He always asks, because Bruce likes to be asked, even though he never gives details. But Anton has discovered it’s just the sense of caring that he enjoys, the sense that someone actually gives a damn how his day went. Anton doesn’t know what Bruce does for a living – something important, and he’s clearly powerful and wealthy – but that doesn’t matter.

“It was busy, sir. But I was thinking of you all afternoon.” Bruce smiles.

It’s another difference between Bruce and Zoë: Bruce likes to call him _sir_. Zoë has never told Anton to call her anything but Zoë. In fact the one time he called her _mistress_ , just trying it out, she wrinkled her nose and shook her head a few times in warning. Anton has never tried it again.

“I can’t imagine that would be good for productivity.” Anton runs a hand gently through Bruce’s thick, salt-and-pepper hair.

“Perhaps you should punish me, sir.” Bruce gives another grin, looking up through his lashes. Anton knows he’s joking, though, because Bruce doesn’t really like punishment, not unless he’s in the mood for it (another difference from Zoë). Anton has done his best over the months to pick up on cues and vague suggestions, and he likes to think he’s done a good job of forming the boundaries of the relationship between them.

Basically, from what Anton has pieced together, Bruce likes to feel wanted. Wanted, and controlled.

“You can’t help your thoughts,” Anton says. “And anyway, I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

He never says anything that’s untrue, because he’s a bad liar despite being a good actor – totally different skill-sets, he’s decided. But Bruce can hear the sincerity in his voice, and nods, happy.

Anton sits in the armchair, and scrunches his toes into the fluffy rug Bruce kneels on. It used to be a Persian rug, a small rectangle, but once Anton spent an afternoon kneeling on it himself for Zoë, he silently replaced it with one much more forgiving on the knees. Bruce never complained before, but he did seem grateful for the change.

“I’ve been thinking about your mouth,” Anton says quietly, and watches Bruce’s hardening cock twitch at the words. “The way you suck me, so sweetly and so carefully.”

“I’ve missed that.”

“Would you like to—”

“Yes.”

Anton chuckles. Zoë would punish him for breaking in like that, but Anton would never punish Bruce for it. He smiles a little at how much more he understands now, feels good about the time and care he takes with each client.

“Alright, then. Come here.”

And with Bruce’s confident mouth sucking enthusiastically on the head of his dick, Anton closes his eyes and lets himself feel proud. Dominant.

Accepting.

  
***

  
Anton doesn’t go back to the gallery next week, but he misses his time with the Canyon, so he returns the week after, earlier in the morning this time and on a different day just to make sure he doesn’t run into Quiet Guy.

But the Grand Canyon is gone.

He stops dead as he enters the room, staring at the Jackson Pollock in its place, and then marches back to the reception desk.

“Where’s the Canyon?” he demands, and she looks up, startled.

“I’m sorry, sir; that exhibition has finished. The works were on loan, so they’ve been sent back now.”

“Where to? Where did they come from?”

“Australia.”

She keeps talking, but Anton can’t hear her. It’s like his heart shrivels up and stops beating, because Australia? It might as well be the moon.

He turns without speaking and heads out, turns on his iPod – something heavy, loud, crashing into his eardrums and matching his black mood. Shoving out of the entrance, he nearly bowls over Quiet Guy, who grabs at Anton and the wall to stop them both falling over. He says something.

Anton rips out his earbuds, scowling. “What?”

“I said, I’m a curator.” His accent is strange, and Anton can’t quite place it.

“Congratulations?”

“I thought that’s what we were doing. Telling each other our careers? Only you ran off so fast the other day, I didn’t get a chance to tell you mine.”

“Fucking for money is not a career.”

“Okay.”

“I mean. I think of it like a profession, sure, because I’m good at it, and I _try_ to be good at it, but that’s not my career. My career is acting. And not porn, before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Quiet Guy opens his mouth to say something, but pauses.

“What do you want?” Anton asks, suddenly tired.

“I don’t want anything. I was just going to say…”

“No, thanks. I’m off the clock. I can give you my business card if you want to—”

“I was just going to say, you look like you could do with a cuppa. A cup of tea, or a coffee if you prefer,” he clarifies, as Anton frowns a little.

“I’m late for work.”

“Okay. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe he’s a holy roller,” Rachel suggests, when he tells her the story. “Maybe he’s an art curator by day and a crazy evangelist by night, looking to convert the lost.”

But Anton doesn’t think so.

  
***

  
They’re looking more at each other than at him, but Anton has long since learned not to let anything like that bother him. In a way, it’s like his acting career – sometimes (okay, in acting? Most of the time) he’s not right for the part, but it’s nothing personal. But then he realizes that’s not the problem.

“So my friend here has never been with a guy,” Zach says as soon as the door shuts.

“Okay.”

His friend, Chris, looks nervous. He keeps licking his lips, but his eyes are bright and interested. He only looks at Zach.

“He wants to try it. So – you might be wondering why I don’t just offer my own services.”

Anton wasn’t, actually, but he’s learned to listen to everything clients say upfront. Saves misunderstandings in the middle of things.

“We don’t want to screw up our friendship,” Chris explains, finally looking at Anton.

He nods. “Sure. That would suck.”

Zach continues, “So we figured, we could come here, see if he likes it, and if he does…”

They look at each other again, smirking.

Anton nods again, projecting thoughtfulness. It’s not genuinely the case that the customer is always right in this business, but most of the time the adage holds true. He suspects, for example, that Zach is very excited by the thought of _watching_ his friend, not just interested in fucking Chris himself. But that’s fine, and that’s not Anton’s concern anyway, beyond how he can work it into the scenario.

He asks, “Where would you like to start?” Chris looks hesitant. This guy seems undeniably straight, Anton thinks, until he watches him glance at Zach and melt, the definition of googly-eyed.

“What should I…” Chris asks.

Zach looks at Anton. “Nothing too confronting first time round. Just oral, I was thinking. Can you blow without rubbers?”

It really depends on how Anton is feeling on the day, but yeah, most of the time he’s fine with that. “As long as he’s clean,” he says to Zach, as though Chris’s opinion doesn’t matter. And Chris just stands there, docile, smiling at the floor.

They have both actually brought test results. Anton looks them over, thankful that his real job is allowing him to keep control of his laughter. No one brings test results. It’s up to Anton and the other employees how much risk they’re personally willing to take on.

But it’s thoughtful, and it also suggests that Zach has been longing to see his friend get sucked off, bare, if he’s taking pre-emptive actions like this. Anton gives him a quick glance, but his dark eyes are completely innocent. Then he recognizes him – Anton has seen this guy in some commercial lately, for Big Macs or Restless Leg Syndrome or maybe Crest. So he’s an actor. A good one, judging by his ingenuous performance.

Anton turns to Chris. “How about you take a seat over there, on the bed?” Chris looks at Zach, who gives a little nod, and Chris obeys. Anton wonders for a moment whether there’s something more there, a power dynamic. But watching the confident set of Chris’s shoulders, and the face he makes at Zach that clearly says _I can’t believe I’m doing this_ , he figures there’s not. Just a straight guy experimenting and a gay guy itching to watch.

Anton finds himself feeling sympathetic. If Chris _doesn’t_ enjoy this, Zach will never get a chance to try it for himself. He gives Zach one long look, who returns it with hopeful eyes, and then Anton turns to face Chris.

“So I’m just going to open your jeans,” he says politely, and get on his knees in front of him. When he has trouble pulling them down over Chris’s hips, Zach is eager to help, pulling Chris up off the bed by his hands so that Anton can tug.

Zach sits next to Chris then, smiling. “Maybe you shouldn’t look at first,” he suggests. “It might be weird for you. Just focus on the feeling instead.” Anton sees Chris nodding from the corner of his eye, and half-thinks that he doesn’t look like he’s going to stop staring at Zach any time soon anyway. But he’s focused on pulling out the half-hard cock in front of him. He lets it lay in his hand and then slips his fingers carefully below, weighing balls in his palm and kneading them gently.

Chris makes a noise, and Zach whispers to him, but Anton tries not to listen throughout the whole thing, because they’re not for him, those phrases of lust and wonder, _I’ve waited so long to see you like this, you look so hot; yeah, that’s right, let him suck you down; I want to watch you come down his throat, come on, unload for me._

“So you just never know,” he says to Rachel afterwards. “I could have sworn he was the straightest straight who ever straighted when he walked through the door, but when they were leaving, I saw him slip his hand into his friend’s.”

“Sweet. I hope it works out for them.”

“Me, too.”

Judging by the size of the tip Zach left for him, Anton is pretty sure at least _he_ thinks it’s going to work out.

  
***

  
He’s back at the gallery again the next week, on a Monday, which is when he’s found it at its quietest. The same receptionist is there and he actually apologizes for storming off on her the week before. She clearly doesn’t remember, but she nods and smiles and accepts his apology.

“Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the new exhibition as much as the old.”

He doesn’t. Jackson Pollock is all well and good, but he’s not exactly serene. Anton stick his earbuds in, doesn’t put any music on. He likes to take his time finding his way through art before he matches it up to music. But he sits for only a minute or two before he feels agitated, and has to stand up and turn his back.

And there’s Quiet Guy, watching him watching Pollock.

“He’s not really my thing either, but he pulls in the punters,” he says.

“It probably makes me sound bourgeois, but I just don’t get him,” Anton replies. And pulls out his earbuds sheepishly. The defensive mechanism has failed. “What’s your name?”

“Karl.”

“I’m Anton.”

“Good to meet you, mate,” Karl says, and strides over to shake his hand. “It doesn’t make you sound bourgeois, by the way. We’re having the Pollock exhibition for a few months, though. Sorry. I know you liked the Modern Brits.”

“Yeah. The Canyon, especially.”

“Extraordinary work, that one. Always calmed me down after fighting about funding with the Board.” He smiles, rueful, and Anton finds himself smiling back. “You know what, though? You might like the new antiquities exhibition. I find it very calming as well, personally, that connection to things gone by. Greek sculpture. Not my specialty, but I’d be happy to show you, if—?”

The sculptures are beautiful, but Anton knows little about ancient art. Karl, despite his claims to the contrary, knows a lot, and explains that these works are not really representative of the best of Classical sculpture. “But you take what you can get, write it up a bit in the catalogues, and suddenly everyone’s under the impression you’ve got the Elgin Marbles on display. Pretty, though, aren’t they? I mean, if these are second rate, the top stuff must be bloody marvelous. Give me your hand.”

Anton shoots him a look.

“I just want to show you something.” Anton holds out his hand, and Karl clasps it, lays it on the arm of the Eros statue in front of them. He covers Anton’s hand with his own and runs it up and down the cold marble arm, shoulder to wrist.

“Feel it?”

“Wow! You can feel the _muscle_ underneath, but—” But when he just looks at it, the stone seems smooth, flowing.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Karl smiles up at the statue and Anton feels an emotion he hasn’t felt for some time: jealousy.

“Waiting for it to move?” he asks, and turns away. There’s a Dionysus behind him, draped in white grapevines. His nose is cracked.

“When these were first made, they were covered with paint,” Karl says quietly. “Vibrant color. I had the opportunity of seeing a Roman Apollo in Naples with a deep blue cloak falling off his shoulders. So it’s always a little sad to me to see these guys all…colorless.”

Anton thinks again about the brilliant hues of the Canyon, vermillion with cinnamon shadows, carrot-orange next to royal purple.

They should have clashed, but they didn’t.

Anton turns around again, looking at Karl. “I’ll take that – what did you call it, cuppa?” Karl nods. “I’ll take that cuppa now.”

He half expected Karl to take him back to his office, slip him a twenty and ask for a blow job, but they go to the gallery café instead. When Anton insists on paying, Karl just shrugs and asks for a megacino instead of medium.

“So, your accent.” They’re sitting in a secluded area, but there are few patrons anyway. “Australian?”

Karl looks pained. “New Zealand.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It happens.”

Anton takes his time sipping at his espresso. “You ever get to Australia?” he asks eventually.

“Sure. Sometimes. For acquisitions.”

“You should go acquire the Grand Canyon,” Anton suggests with a grin.

“I would if I could. We don’t have a spare eight million lying around, and those bloody Aussies wouldn’t part from it even if we did.” But he grins back. “You could always go take a photograph.”

Anton laughs sharply. “Man, I’m not getting Downunder anytime soon.”

“I meant, take a road trip. Go see the real thing. See the Canyon for yourself.”

The real thing. Looking at Karl, real things seem a lot closer than they usually do. And then his phone starts buzzing frantically, makes a stuttering pathway across the tabletop.

“Sorry.” Anton picks it up to check the caller, expecting notification of a new client booking. But it’s his agent. His _acting_ agent. “I gotta take this,” he says to Karl apologetically, but Karl just nods. When Anton hangs up, he leans closer.

“Sounded like good news?”

Anton is still overwhelmed. “I got a part. In a movie. In a real goddamn _movie_. I actually _got_ it.”

Karl holds up in hand in a high five and Anton smacks it. “Way to go. Guess you’ll have to put off the road trip for a while, right?”

Anton looks at him, his attractive face, his relaxed posture, foot up on the seat next to him and milk froth caught in the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “You’re right. I’d like to experience the real thing for myself. Sometime soon.”


End file.
